


Love is an Arrow

by raunchyandpaunchy



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Challenge Response, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Forehead Touching, Huddling For Warmth, Multi, One Shot Collection, Original Character(s), Original Character-centric, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:15:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy/pseuds/raunchyandpaunchy
Summary: A collection of one-shots forArtemisMoonsong'sOC Romance Week challenge, featuring my own OCs as well as some borrowed (with permission!) fromFourCatProductions,Thanatopsiturvyandspiney. Various pairings, various ratings.





	1. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entry for June 22!   
> Trope: Sharing a Bed  
> Pairing: Karliah/Morwen (Female Dunmer OC)  
> Rating: T (some bad language)
> 
> If you'd like to read another one-shot of this pairing I wrote, you can do so [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954231)

For months, Morwen and Karliah had pocketed every last septim they could lay their hands on, scrimping and saving and stealing until they had enough money to gain passage on a boat headed to Solstheim. Their efforts had bought them board in the ship’s tiniest, most cramped cabin, where they now lay, pressed together like fish in a barrel.

Morwen didn’t mind. It beat sleeping on the floor of the Cornerclub, sawdust clumping in her hair and catching in her throat, the stench of vomit biting at her nostrils while some shithead Nord bellowed outside—usually about how Dunmer filth were tarnishing this great city as he pissed a night’s worth of cheap mead against the building’s brickwork.

Windhelm was a thankless, miserable place; prejudice buried so deep it could never be uprooted. Karliah had resisted at first, saying she’d rather steal from the fuckers who’d wronged her than her own kind, but Morwen could see the lines of worry and tension carving their way into her face. Solstheim held opportunity, too. Deep pockets, lazy ambassadors, corruption running rife.

They’d downed the shein they’d squirrelled away, toasting to new beginnings as they watched Windhelm fade into the horizon, ocean winds whipping their hair. The scent of it all still clung to Karliah as she slumbered. Quiet and still, chest rising and falling with each shallow breath, in rhythm with the boat’s gentle rocking. Morwen moved closer, unsure whether to wrap an arm around her or just leave it hanging listlessly at her side, wishing for once she had the courage to do what it was she truly wanted. Not to couch her feelings in metaphor, or imagery, or prose, but to take action—fingers twined, lips kissing hers, _I love you, Karliah._

The boat jerked and Karliah roused, stretching catlike against the flimsy straw mattress.

“S’okay,” Morwen murmured, “just the ship.”

Karliah smiled, hazy and sleep-drunk. “Mmm.” She curled into Morwen, soft and real and so, so beautiful. “Solstheim.”

“That’s right.” Morwen breathed Karliah in, and Azura, it was like home. “New beginnings.”


	2. Plus One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A late entry, but an entry nonetheless! This one's for June 23. 
> 
> Trope: Fake Relationship  
> Pairing: Nadine Rielle/Jak Amorell (my OC and [FourCatProductions'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions) OC respectively--thanks so much for letting me borrow them!)   
> Rating: T (some bad language, suggestive themes, alcohol use)
> 
> Jak is a side character in [The Book of Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172207/chapters/24939723)\--they're the main character's sibling, but they're a joy to read (as is this entire fic) and you should absolutely go read it. :D

“Quit blinking,” Jak said, lining Nadine’s eye with dark paste. “You’ll smudge it.”

It was rather hard not to blink, what with their prodding and poking, but Nadine bit her tongue. She didn’t want their work to be for naught, and the artistry around their own eyes was breathtaking, long dark lines swooping upward, accentuating their already full lashes. It made their normally striking blue eyes seem almost ethereal, like seaglass, and when Nadine opened her eyes again she couldn’t help but be captivated.

Jak just smiled, admiring their handiwork. “Can’t believe you don’t know how to do this.” They raised a perfectly groomed brow, in a look that was more appraising than outright critical. “Then again, you are kind of a natural beauty. Soft. Delicate.”

“That’ll be why I’m your betrothed, darling,” Nadine grinned, careful not to smudge her lip paint as she took a sip of her wine.

“Yes, that and the fact you’re a fantastic seamstress.” Jak smoothed out a crease on their dress. “And quite the fun time at parties, if the rumours are to be believed.”

The rumours had come from Nadine herself, who, after having been asked to make Jak the dress for said party, had asked for her payment to be an invite as Jak’s guest. Apparently the event was exclusive in who was welcome—an Altmeri affair, as formal as it was elegant—and as a result, they were stringent about the plus one extending to spouses or spouses-to-be of the invitee only.

So, for the evening, they were to be each others’ one-and-only, set to marry in the Temple of Mara in Riften come Last Seed.

“Never know, we might not even have to share a bed this evening,” Jak said, fastening the clasp on their Amulet of Mara. “One of us might leave with another.”

Nadine gave Jak a dubious look. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but is that not going to shatter the illusion that we’re to be wed?”

“You’d be surprised what goes on at these parties,” Jak said, giving her a conspiratorial smile. “For all the Altmer are set on tradition and commitment, they certainly like to turn a blind eye when it suits them.” They swirled the wine in their goblet, and something Nadine couldn’t quite read crossed their face, just for a faint moment. “Nothing like a bit of repression.”

“I’ll pass,” Nadine said, nose wrinkling. “If I’m going to be involved with anyone who’s married, I prefer all parties to be on the same page.” Jak’s brow raised a little at this, and Nadine grinned. “Anyway, I’ve only got eyes for you this evening.”

Jak scoffed. “Charmer.”

 

* * *

 

 

Their heels click-clacked against the cobblestone streets of Solitude as they strolled to the party, cast in the warm glow of the evening sun. They held hands as they walked along, and already Nadine could notice them garnering looks, wide-eyed and approving from the townspeople. Good. She squeezed Jak’s hand a little tighter, smiling up at them. They really were gorgeous—slender and elegant, with the most striking features. They weren’t that much taller than Nadine, but the way they carried themself made them seem like they towered over her.

“After you, my dear,” Jak smiled, leading Nadine under a canopy of flowers and hanging moss. The damp scent of them hit her as she walked under, earthy and thick.

“How’s Rhiannon?” Nadine asked as Jak emerged, ducking to get through. Thankfully they’d made it unscathed, braids and circlet still in place.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Jak smiled, brushing an errant petal from their dress. “Don’t think she was too pleased when I told her what I was using her spare Amulet of Mara for, but she’ll survive.”

“Does she drink?” Their fingers twined into each other’s again, free and easy. “Maybe we could steal her a bottle of wine.”

Surprised amusement crossed Jak’s face. “Theft? And here I thought you were a good girl, Miss Rielle.”

“Oh yes, _that’s_ why you’re marrying me. Because I’m good.”

 

* * *

 

_A seamstress,_ Nadine had told people when asked what it was she did for a living. _Trained in Daggerfall._ It was something like the truth.

“She made me this dress!” Jak beamed, twirling around so everyone could see the fall of the fabric. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Nadine couldn’t help but smile—it sat perfectly on them, little pearlescent glass beads studding the deep blue of the dress, the blue-green threads in the silk glinting in the light. It was some of her best work, and Jak looked radiant in it, eyes sparkling as they extended one long, slender arm to show off the sleeves.

“It’s certainly… different,” Taarie smiled, lips pursed. “Very exuberant.”

“My betrothed is an exuberant woman,” Jak almost giggled, taking a sip from their wine flute. They were obviously enjoying this, and it was infectious.

Nadine grinned up from a plate of cheese and salmon. “Not as exuberant as you are lovely, my darling!”

“Oh yes, did I tell you Nadine is also a poet?”

Taarie, through a forced smile, made her excuses and left the conversation, and Nadine and Jak collapsed into giggles.

“This is entirely too much fun,” Jak choked out, grasping for a handkerchief in their handbag. “I’ll give you ten septims if you manage to find a lute and serenade me.”

“You’re on.”

 

* * *

 

The moon hung heavy in the sky as they left the party, Nadine ten septims and two ill-gotten bottles of wine richer. Fancy shoes had been taken off in the interest of comfort, and being able to walk back to the tavern with slightly less issue. They swayed in the night breeze, arms around each other, bumping against each other like boats in a harbour.

“Told y’ he was—” a loud hiccup escaped Jak mid-sentence. “He was a sleazebag.”

“And he’s a Thane?” Nadine exclaimed, louder than she intended, immediately shushing herself. “He’s a Thane,” she said again, quieter. “Shouldn’t be bloody surprised. Can we go put—” Nadine giggled. “Put a sack of skeever droppings on his doorstep? I can light it on fire. He’ll have to stomp it out and he’ll get skeever shit all over his fancy shoes.”

“You’re lighting nothing on fire, Rielle,” Jak said, definitively.

Nadine pouted.

“I mean… not right now. Let’s not rule anything out.”

Nadine squeezed Jak tighter, taking a swig from her hip flask. Probably not the best idea, but best ideas were tomorrow’s problem.

“When was the last time you were this shitfaced?” Nadine asked, offering Jak a drink.

They looked at it with trepidation before shrugging and taking a sip. “Not for a while.” They took another, longer this time, then handed it back. “Oh! Think I went on a bender with a Daedric prince once. Hangover from Oblivion the next day.”

Nadine looked up at Jak, excited. “Really? Me too!” She bit her lip. “Ended up desecrating a temple. Not my proudest moment.”

“Oh _Gods_ I’m glad it wasn’t just me,” Jak sighed, relieved. “They were _not_ happy.”

They both looked at each other, then dissolved into peals of giggles, tears running down their faces and ruining their once pristine make-up.

“Fun evening, though,” Jak mused. “Well, what I can remember of it, anyway.”

Nadine nodded. “The man was quite cute, wasn’t he?” Her nose wrinkled. “Probably shouldn’t have told him about the sex dungeon, though.”

“I’m sorry, the _what?_ ”


	3. History Eraser

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Entry for June 25, which is both very late and out of order, but fuck it. 
> 
> Trope: Modern Day AU  
> Pairing: Nadine/Aerik/Rhiannon   
> Rating: M (suggestive sexual themes, alcohol use, references to drugs)
> 
> Nadine's my OC, Aerik is [Topsy's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/pseuds/Thanatopsiturvy), Rhiannon is [FourCat's.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions) Named after a song by Courtney Barnett.

The first thing that hit Rhiannon was the scent of something warm and chocolatey and delicious coming from the kitchen. The second thing that hit her was a balloon to the face.

“Happy nameday!”

When she’d come to her senses, momentarily dazed by the bright red ball of air lobbed her way, she saw Aerik beaming at her. Gold streamers in his hair, cake batter on his cheek, and a t-shirt that read ‘Your Dad says Hi’.

She couldn’t help but grin. “Still can’t believe you bought that,” Rhiannon said, shucking off her boots. “Still can’t believe you _wear_ that.”

“Uh, why wouldn’t I?” Aerik cocked a brow, hand on hip. “Want to make my intentions clear.”

“General decency, maybe?” Something electronic and _loud_ was blasting from Nadine’s direction. “And—could we maybe turn that down? Pretty sure our neighbours are annoyed at us as it is.”

“Hey, Nads! Turn down Peaches,” Aerik shouted through, and Rhiannon cringed. _Well, that wouldn’t upset the neighbours._ “Rhiannon said to.”

A loud boo came in response, but the music did gratifyingly get turned down. Then, “Wait, Rhi’s back?”

Rhiannon barely had the time to process the noise of clattering utensils and feet against floorboards before Nadine’s arms wrapped around her, squeezing her tight, the scent of baking and jasmine and her own shampoo filling her nostrils.

“OhmygodshappynamedayI’msoexcited!” She planted a happy little kiss on Rhiannon’s forehead and oh, that shouldn’t make her heart skip a beat still, after all this time living together. “We’ve made veggie pizzas, and cake, and Tel even got us some flin and sujamma so we can make Cliff Racers later.” Her face lit up. “We’re gonna get shitfaced.”

“Pizzas?” Aerik smirked. “Not very Breton.”

“Yeah, well, knee-high socks and shorts that say ‘Juicy’ across the arse aren’t very Nordic,” Nadine shot back, eyeing him up and down. “…I don’t think.”

“Hey, I’m half Altmer.”

Nadine snorted. “ _Definitely_ not Altmer. When was the last time you saw Nil rocking that getup?”

“Nil doesn’t count. He’s older. And a monk. And—”

“He’s got a bit of Nord in him too?” Nadine grinned, waggling her eyebrows.

“Leave Nilandur out of this,” Rhiannon chided. “He’s not here to defend himself. It’s rude.” She had an affinity with Nil—his gentle nature, his philosophies, his fondness for her baking—and found herself prickling whenever Aerik and Nadine took to teasing him. “The others joining us?”

Aerik shook his head. “Brelyna, Onmund and J’zargo are still travelling,” he said, apologetically. "Ahz is on a vision quest. Or tripping his beans off on Moon Sugar, whatever you want to call it. They left presents, though. Should be under—actually, give me a sec and I’ll go get them.”

He rushed off into his bedroom, and Rhiannon leaned towards Nadine, aiming for something resembling subtlety. “Is anyone else coming?”

“Tel might be making an appearance,” Aerik shouted through, something clattering loudly as it fell off a shelf. “If that’s all right,” he added, pointedly.

Nadine gave her a knowing look. Things had never been more tense than when Aerik first brought Teldryn back to the flat. The age gap had been too blatant to miss, and Rhiannon had reacted poorly. In all honesty, she still had her reservations. Tel was old enough to be—well, that didn’t really bear thinking about. But he was a genuinely lovely guy, and they seemed to get on, and in truth he did bring out the best in Aerik, even if she did have to hear Aerik refer to their sex life as him “getting nailed like a loose board” on more than one occasion.

“Of course it is,” Rhiannon yelled back, tone equally pointed.

“C’mon, isn’t going to be one of those nights, is it?” Nadine said, taking off her apron. Her top was marginally less gaudy than Aerik’s, the text reading ‘Pizza Slut’ in bright, bold lettering. “Let’s just have fun, celebrate your nameday, open some presents.” Her eyes lit up. “Ooh! You’ve still to open mine. It’s on the table, under the—whoa. Aerik went a bit wild with the streamers.”

Nadine wasn’t wrong. Something misshapen and lumpy was buried underneath, like a polka-dot rock under some sort of gaudy, mossy growth. Rhiannon cleared the strands of gold to reveal Nadine’s signature bad wrapping—paper held in place by poorly placed tape and a prayer. Still, her wrapping wasn’t what Rhiannon cared about. She tore it open, revealing the soft, woollen present stored inside, strands of green and turquoise and blue all weaving together into a gorgeous gradient of colour. On top, a silver pendant, the stone in the middle shining in the same radiant colours as the jumper.

“Is it okay?” Nadine bit her lip. “I wasn’t sure if you’d like the colours, but I thought they’d really suit you. I can always change it if it’s not your style.”

Rhiannon held it up, admiring the intricacy of the knit. “No, it’s lovely,” she said, smiling. “Really. I’m going to put it on right now.”

It was much softer than she’d expected, and the fit was perfect—roomy and loose, just the way she liked it.

“It really suits you,” Nadine said, looking pleased. “Made from ethically sourced wool, too.”

Rhiannon enveloped Nadine in a warm, woolly hug. “Thank you so much,” she said, Nadine’s hair tickling her nose. “I love it.”

Another, longer set of arms wrapped around them both. “Know what I love?”

“Aerik, if you say anything about dicks right now I swear to Gods—”

“I love _pizza_ , Nadine.” Aerik grinned. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

 

* * *

 

The pizza was good. Really good. Laden with goodness knows how many cheeses and vegetables Rhiannon had grown, and they scoffed each slice down with some mead from the nearby craft brewery. Rhiannon barely had enough room left for cake, but it looked too good not to try a slice, and so she’d accepted an extremely generous portion of it from Nadine.

“So good,” Rhiannon half said, half whined from her spot slumped on the couch. “So full.”

Aerik, the bastard, had gone in for another slice. Rhiannon wondered where he put it all. “Not telling Tel about the cake. S’mine.”

“It’s Rhi’s, actually,” Nadine reminded him, pointing her fork in his direction. She took another scoop of cake on her fork, dainty for the shortest of moments before shovelling it into her mouth with gusto. “So hands off.” Crumbs spilled from her mouth as she spoke.

“I’m not going to eat the whole thing on my own,” Rhiannon insisted, ignoring the voice in her head that said _but you absolutely could_. Her stomach grumbled, vehemently disagreeing with that statement. _Maybe not right now, but you could._

Nadine shrugged. “S’your cake.” She set her fork down, and clapped her hands. “Cliff Racers? Ooh! You should open your other presents too, Rhi!”

Evidently sensing the amount of effort that would be involved getting off the couch, Aerik brought the gifts to Rhiannon, slumping himself down beside her. The shake of ice against metal rang out from the kitchen as Rhiannon opened her presents—a book on herbalism she’d been eyeing from Onmund, some organic skincare products that she’d wanted but couldn’t afford from Brelyna (she’d need to hide those from Nadine), a framed photograph of her and J’zargo from J’zargo, fruit from Elsweyr crystallised in Moon Sugar from Azarahd, and an intricate glass bong from Aerik, various flowers of Skyrim tracing its length.

“And, y’know, if you felt like taking this bad boy for a test run, I wouldn’t object,” Aerik grinned.

Rhiannon shook her head. “After drinking? That is a stupendously bad idea. Remember what happened last time?”

“Shit,” Aerik said, gravely. “Forgot about that.”

“Well, you weren’t the one holding Nadine’s hair back while she puked her guts in the toilet,” Rhiannon said. She’d had that particular privilege that night, and she didn’t particularly care to repeat it. Or be the one puking her own guts, which had also happened, albeit somewhere else. “We can smoke off the hangover.”

“Deal.”

The Cliff Racers went down far too easily, their fiery edge softened by the ice and the alcohol they’d already consumed. It wasn’t long before Rhiannon felt the warm, familiar fire in her belly grow, the soft glow of being on the right side of drunk washing over her.

“So,” Nadine said, sitting on the floor at Rhiannon’s feet. “Wanna play a party game?”

Aerik snorted. “What, like ‘Spin the Bottle’? Don’t really think that works when none of the present company really ring my bell.” A flush covered his face. “Plus, I’m a taken man now.” He wiggled his brows, picked up his phone. “Might even be tonight with any luck.”

“Want to maybe try and keep it down this time?” Nadine interjected. “Smug bastard, rubbing in that he’s the only one getting some.”

“Uh, scuse me? What about Brenmundargo?”

Rhiannon’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

“Our other three roommates. It’s their ship name, y’know? Like, you mash 'em all together.”

“They aren’t even here right now,” Nadine said. “Also, that’s a terrible ship name.”

Aerik pouted. “You think of a better one.” He took another sip of his Cliff Racer, moving the cocktail umbrella out of the way so he didn’t poke his eye out. “What would mine and Tel’s be, Teldrik or Aeryn?”

“Both just sorta sound like names,” Nadine shrugged. “That said, Teldrik’s cuter. And no, I wasn’t talking about 'Spin the Bottle', you dork.” She grinned. “Not nearly enough people to make that interesting. I was thinking more along the lines of… ‘Never Have I Ever’?”

Rhiannon groaned inwardly. That game always ended the same way—Aerik and Nadine wasted, and her cleaning up the mess, feeling inferior for having fewer life experiences. Not that she wanted them, really, but it wasn’t that she _didn’t._ Even just one story she had that they didn’t would be nice, for a change.

It hadn’t always been like that, either. She still remembered when she and Nadine first met, in Restoration class during their first year at the College of Winterhold—bookish yet flighty, gregarious but with a certain reservation to her. They had become fast friends, bonding over their shared interests and their newness to Skyrim from another region, and for a long while they were inseparable. Confided everything in each other, from family drama to crushes to their deepest, most painful memories.

And then Nadine met Aerik, and she started hanging out with him instead. Going out to clubs, hooking up with people, sharing in experiences Rhiannon wasn’t privy to.

Not that she hadn’t been invited. Nadine had sent endless messages. Insisting _it’d be fun, c’mon, just a couple of drinks._ All punctuated by emoji, and followed up by a picture of her and Aerik grinning, sweat-soaked and drunk.

Without her.

She knew it was petty to be jealous, but it had still stung, time after time. Months later it’d come to a head, when she finally did go out and had one drink too many, her and Nadine arguing through tears in the bathroom. It was loud and messy and utterly ugly, but despite it all they’d come out the other end, Rhiannon dabbing mascara-streaked tears off Nadine’s cheeks as Nadine held her close, telling her how sorry she was. To Aerik’s credit, he’d seemed utterly unfazed about the whole thing too, which is more than Rhiannon felt she deserved after how she’d treated him.

Since then, Nadine had made a concerted effort to do things that didn’t always involve going out, and Rhiannon made a concerted effort not to let her own insecurities colour her friendship with Nadine or Aerik. She hadn’t looked back since. They’d both introduced her to a lot, helped her come out of her shell a bit. She liked to think she’d had a bit of a calming influence on them, too.

“Never have I ever… had a threesome,” Nadine giggled, taking a swig from her own cup. Aerik followed suit.

Well, sometimes anyway.

“Seriously?” Aerik said, almost accusingly. “When?”

At least Rhiannon wasn’t the last to find out. That was more gratifying than it should be. She suspected Nadine confided in her less, deeming her boring or judgemental. Which she wasn’t, she… just didn’t always know what to say when Nadine shared her exploits.

“About a month ago?” Nadine’s already rosied cheeks reddened further. “Met them at Nightingales. Married couple. They were super nice.” She toyed with her braid, smiling. “They made your necklace, Rhi. They’ve got their own Etsy page and everything.”

“Cute,” Aerik said, blond hair spilling over his shoulder. “Mine was back before I met Tel, with some guys I met in the Huntsman.” He snorted. “It was pretty terrible. We were all shitfaced. By the time we all managed to get it up, nobody knew where to put it.”

“Aerik,” Nadine squeaked through laughter. “You can’t just—” she paused, wiping away a tear, “you can’t just drop that on us.”  
  
A wicked grin spread across Rhiannon’s face. “I’m telling Teldryn.”

“You’re telling Tel—” Aerik paused to hiccup. “Nothing. Anyway. Never have I ever slept with a woman.”

“Seriously?” Nadine asked, taking a drink. “Never?”

It was mildly surprising to Rhiannon too—mostly because she was drinking and Aerik wasn’t.

“Never. Kissed a few, but I kinda knew early on I wasn’t into girls,” he shrugged. “Sorry.”

Nadine smirked. “I’m sure we’ll survive.” She gestured toward Rhiannon, almost spilling her drink over the rug. “Anyway, not like Rhi bats for your team anyway. Speaking of which,” she said, smiling at Rhiannon with drunken glee, “your turn.”

“Never have I ever…”

Rhiannon pondered, looking around the room for inspiration. Their living room was a menagerie of their shared interests, a shrine to all they held dear—trinkets and books and instruments and plants, various photographs and banners and art lining the walls. To anyone else, it’d look a mess, but it was theirs and Rhiannon loved it. Mostly. She could do without tripping over Aerik’s guitar every time she tried to water the spider plant.

“…slept with a musician.”

“Does it count if it’s yourself? Counting it.” Nadine took a drink, eyes glinting. “Oh no, wait! I did go home with a bard once.” She paused, spotting Aerik’s smirk. “What? She was cute. And loud. Like you’ve any room to talk, Havardr.”

He shrugged, shameless. “I went to the Bards College. Everyone was horny on main there. Honestly, you were doing something wrong if you didn’t fuck a classmate.”

“Or a professor…” Nadine murmured, pretending to be surreptitious.

Rhiannon groaned. “Aerik, you didn’t.”

“Nadine, s’your turn.”

“Nice deflection. Okay.” She went silent for a while, gazing into her drink. “Never have I ever said “I love you” to a partner and meant it.”

Rhiannon and Aerik both drank, more solemnly than they had on previous questions.

“Really?” The question came out before Rhiannon could stop it.

Nadine nodded, swirling the remnants of her drink around in her glass. “Haven’t been in all that many relationships.” She shrugged. “The first one I only really said it because I felt some sort of strange obligation to, and ever since—” she looked up, an expression Rhiannon couldn’t quite read on her face, “I’ve held the words close. I find it easier to say to friends than partners, but that’s probably because I find friends easier than partners.” She sighed. “Dunno. S’complicated.”

“The first time I said it to Tel I swear I thought I was gonna throw up,” Aerik said. “And then he said it back, and then I actually did throw up. In fairness, all the shein I’d been knocking back that night probably didn’t help.”

“Probably not,” Rhiannon agreed.

“But every time we say it to each other now, it’s just… revelatory,” Aerik said, a smile spreading wide across his face. “It’s worth holding out for. And it’s worth taking the risk.”

Nadine looked down, worrying at the hem of her skirt. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Anyway, where were we?” Aerik said, a little too quickly. “Never have I ever… had a crush on a friend.” He downed the rest of his drink, watching as Rhiannon slowly followed suit. Then, seemingly reluctantly, Nadine.

Aerik grinned, nudging Nadine with his elbow. “Oh yeah? Spill.”

“No.” Nadine’s answer surprised Aerik—and Rhiannon, for that matter. Wasn’t like Nadine to not be up front about things. “Pass.”

“Seriously? C’mon, just tell us—”

Rhiannon shot him a look. “Leave her be. She said she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

“Fair enough. Sorry, Nads.” Aerik put an arm around her shoulder, squeezing her tight. “Want to play a game called ‘Aerik goes through your Tinder and swipes right on all the hot men’?”

Nadine snorted. “I do prefer that game to ‘Aerik plays Wonderwall on guitar for the rest of the evening’.”

“Cheeky shit.”

 

* * *

 

By the end of the evening, they’d polished off their entire drink supply, helped along marginally by Teldryn stopping by. The rest of the night had been more subdued, chatting easily about things as they drank, the pale light of Masser and Secunda pouring in through the windows along with the halogen glow of streetlamps. Aerik was wrapped around Teldryn, sleepy and content, Nadine nearly nodding off at their feet.

“C’mon,” Rhiannon said, extending a hand to Nadine. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Nadine made a noise a little like a purr, accepting Rhiannon’s hand and slumping against her shoulder as Rhiannon led her to her room. Through everything, this was one ritual they still had; looking out for each other when they were tired or drunk or stoned, or whenever they were just too burnt out to go on. She knew Nadine was capable of taking care of herself, and she shouldn’t fuss like a mother hen. But she also knew the feeling was mutual, Nadine having tucked Rhiannon into her bed numerous times, the familiar scent of patchouli surrounding her as Nadine covered her with her blanket.

When Rhiannon lifted up Nadine’s duvet, she practically fell into her bed, snuggling into the mattress contentedly. Her own blanket smelled of her—perfume and memories and stories, everything that made Nadine _Nadine._

“Good night,” Rhiannon said. “Left you a glass of water on your bedside table. Try to drink it?”

“Mmm.” That was likely as good an answer as Rhiannon was going to get, and she was ready to close the door behind her when Nadine responded, quiet and sleep-soft. “Love you, Rhi.”

Rhiannon knew it was purely platonic, but a knot formed in her stomach and her face flushed and she felt something she hadn’t felt since her first year in College. “Love you too, Nads.”


	4. Discovery: Second Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An extremely belated entry for June 24, but better late than never!  
> Trope: Role Swap  
> Pairing: Brynjolf/Nadine  
> Rating: E (smut. Much smut. With Dom/sub overtones and spanking and all that good stuff.)
> 
> Basically a rewrite of The Edged Lexicon, Ch. 1 (where my OC Nadine comes from) but with Brynjolf as the young, adventurous ingenue and Nadine as the older, seasoned member of the Thieves Guild.

As Brynjolf knocked the door to the tavern room, palms sweating, he weighed up for the millionth time just how monumentally fucking stupid the decisions he’d made were.  Accepting a job from a woman twice his age who made his blood pound had been one. Doing said job while under the influence had been another. Catching his marks fucking on the job, then staying to watch—there was another one. And then, just to add insult, getting caught taking himself in hand watching them. He was lucky he hadn’t been arrested.

Hopefully word hadn’t made it back to his contractor yet.

“Come in.”

He stepped into the room, where the woman sat, scribbling into her ledger. She barely acknowledged him as he walked in, and he wasn’t sure quite what to do with himself, so he just stood awkwardly until her quill scratched against the page with finality and dipped back into the inkwell.

“So,” she said, corner of her mouth quirking. “You’re back.” 

She was dressed in inconspicuous yet expensive-looking clothing, rather than the thieves’ leathers Brynjolf knew she usually wore: a dress that clung to every curve of her shapely frame, and a simple silver necklace with some sort of engraving on the pendant. There was a distinguished sort of beauty to her, one that only came with age and confidence, accentuated rather than diminished by the laughter lines around her eyes and the silver hair forming at her temples.

Brynjolf swallowed. “Aye, that I am.” He ran a sweat-slicked palm across his tunic. “I—I brought you the book, Nadine.”

“Yes, so I heard.” Nadine finally looked up, hazel eyes amused. “Adrianne was rather unhappy about that.”

_ Oh Gods, I’m fucked.  _

“Did you know Adrianne and her husband are friends of mine?” Nadine tilted her head. “Friends of the Guild, in fact. I’m supposing you didn’t notice the carvings on their door frame?” 

He actually had—two circles inside a diamond, carved just beside the door—although he had no idea what they meant. 

Nadine didn’t wait for an answer. “They’re Shadowmarks. Code from one thief to another that this house is not to be broken into.” She grinned, leaning back in her chair. “Except, this thief didn’t get the memo, did he?”

“I—” Brynjolf flushed. “You didn’t tell me!” 

“Didn’t think I needed to,” Nadine said simply, draping an arm over the back of the chair. “Given how capable and well-trained a young adventurer you are. Or so you told me.” She took a long sip of her mead, licking an errant drop from the corner of her lip. “I knew you were capable of doing the job—that’s why I sent you. So why don’t you tell me what really happened?”

_ Yep. Completely, utterly, stupendously fucked. _ Brynjolf exhaled, attempting to steady himself. “Went fine, until—” He cleared his throat, ran his fingers through his hair. “—until I heard something. Noises. Went to check them out, and—” He wiped his sweaty palm down his breeches, swallowed hard. “Saw something I shouldn’t have.”

The look Nadine gave him was terrifying in ways he couldn’t explain, eyes glinting with interest. “And then?”

“I—”  _ Fuck. _ He could barely speak. How was he supposed to recount to the cunning, sophisticated woman in front of him that he’d stayed and watched and tossed himself off like a common pervert until he’d been caught in the act? And yet, that’s obviously what she was asking, and the thought of admitting it to her made heat pool in his groin in ways he didn’t care to admit. “I—didn’t leave immediately.”

“Let me see if I’ve got this right.” Nadine raised a dark, arched brow. “You stole the book successfully, heard noises—I’m guessing by your wording that they were of a carnal nature—and went to investigate. What you found were the occupants of the homestead fucking,” something about the way the word tripped off Nadine’s tongue made Brynjolf throb, the coarseness of the word spoken in that soft, Breton accent, “and instead of turning and leaving, you stayed and watched. Call it a hunch, but I’m also guessing you did more than just watch?” 

Brynjolf was beyond words. He could only nod, eyes focused pointedly on the floor.

“Well, I don’t think Adrianne’s too pleased about it all,” Nadine said, “but I can’t say I blame you. Must’ve been quite a sight, hmm?”

“I—what—” Brynjolf looked up, shocked. “Is this a trick?”

“Not at all, Brynjolf.” She smiled at him indulgently, warmth in her eyes, and somehow this unnerved him more than her coolness had. “Adrianne and Ulfberth are very attractive people, wouldn’t you say?”

“Wasn’t just them,” Brynjolf said, and he wasn’t even sure why he said it, but as soon as he had Nadine’s face lit up, curious.

“Is that right?” Nadine toyed with her pendant. “Who else was there, pray tell?”

He should probably stop talking, drop the book and go. Not say anything else that could further incriminate him, at least. “Redguard man. He was, ah—” he shifted on his feet. “He was making love to Ulfberth while Ulfberth was busy pleasuring Adrianne.”

_ “Making love,” _ Nadine mused. “Funny way to describe what sounds like a filthy, debauched fuck.” She swirled the remnants of mead in her bottle. “Doubt it’d have sounded the way you said if they were  _ making love _ .” She looked pointedly at his breeches. “Doubt your cock would be as hard as it is if they were  _ making love _ .” Brynjolf’s surprise must have been evident, because Nadine grinned, feline and devious. “So, tell me again—what were they doing?”

Brynjolf swallowed. “They were fucking.”

Nadine’s eyes glimmered, the amber amidst the hazel almost glowing. “Tell me, Brynjolf—have you ever fucked anyone?”

In the broadest sense of the word, he supposed the answer would be yes—he had been with a handful of people, shared in some rushed and generally mutually unfulfilling couplings—but he knew that wasn’t what Nadine was asking.

“No,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Not the way you said.”

“Would you like to?”

Nadine couldn’t be asking what he thought she was asking. But he could see her eyes raking across his body, blatant and shameless, a wolfish grin on her pretty pink lips, and oh Gods, yep, he was fucked beyond belief—

“Let me know if I’m being too forward.” Her expression softened, more contemplative than predatory. “Am I?”

Brynjolf let his knapsack drop to the floor. “No,” he breathed, heart pounding in his chest, “you’re not.” Walked over to her, the wooden planks underfoot creaking loudly with every step he took, and then he was in front of her, breathing in the scent of perfume and mead. His hands tangled in her hair and he pulled her into him and their mouths pressed together, inelegant and messy.

A hand pushed gently but firmly against his chest. “Before we begin,” Nadine purred in his ear, “some ground rules. You’re free to walk out of this room whenever you’d like, and you’re free to ask me to stop anything I’m doing.” Nadine’s hand slid lower, and the tight, hot coil of desire continued to build in Brynjolf’s gut. “But if you want to do this? I call the shots, and I expect you to proffer the appropriate level of respect. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Nadi—yes, Boss.”

Nadine’s lip curled. “Very good. Might make an initiate of you yet.” She slapped his cheek lightly for emphasis before sitting back down. “Undress.” 

Shyly but obediently, Brynjolf obliged, Nadine’s eyes boring into him like a brand as he did so. He’d never undressed in front of someone like this before—being examined, like he was an oddity—and he wasn’t sure if he was doing it right, shucking off his boots and gambeson in a hurried fashion. 

“Slower.” Nadine’s command halted his hand before it grasped his tunic. “I know you’re probably aching to get out of those breeches, poor thing,” she said, all sardonic concern, “but I want to take you in as you display yourself to me.”

A flush spread across his skin, burning him to his bones, and he could feel himself getting lost in it already—a rush like he’d never known, something better than any drink or cave expedition could ever be. Stripped of power, at another’s whims, and yet he’d never felt so strong, so sure, so right. The cloth of his tunic grazed across his skin as he slowly peeled it off, revelling in the hum of approval Nadine made, and oh, that shouldn’t make him feel this good—

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Nadine’s expression told Brynjolf she already knew the answer. And while he might be new to this, he was a quick learner, and he knew that the whole point of her asking was to hear the answer from his mouth. Moreover, he wanted to give it, wanted to perform for her. Every little sliver of praise he earned from Nadine was a sublime reward, and he found himself chasing it with all the fervour of a starving animal.

“Yes, Boss,” he said, untying the laces on his breeches. “I am.” He eased himself out of the garment, biting back a sigh of relief at no longer being uncomfortably confined.

Nadine smirked. “I can tell. And not just because you were ready to split your trousers in half. No, boys like you—cocky, full of bravado—you’re always the ones who love to serve, put on a show, be told what to do.” She leaned back further into her seat, utterly unfazed in stark relief to Brynjolf. “All pomp and swagger out there, but in here, you squirm and purr so beautifully, don’t you?” 

He wanted to bristle. He didn’t squirm, and he certainly didn’t  _ purr. _ And he might be being told what to do, but he was choosing to obey. Wasn’t he?

It didn’t really matter to his cock, which was now straining with force against his smallclothes. 

“You can lose those too,” Nadine said, amusement lacing her voice. “Might be more comfortable.”

His hands shook as he reached inside, easing his cock out of his smallclothes before shuffling them off of himself. He was already embarrassingly aroused, flushed and rigid, precum leaking from the tip. Every light touch and brush set him alight, pleasure and torture in one fell swoop, and he was beginning to fear Nadine actually touching him. He didn’t want to look inexperienced, like he couldn’t control himself. He could, and he would, and he’d make sure she wouldn’t regret asking him this once-in-a-lifetime question.

“Very nice indeed,” Nadine purred, now standing and pacing around him, eyes raking across his naked form. “Glad to see you’re so… eager.” She traced a finger across his chest, cock twitching in response as pleasure jolted through him. Her finger wandered lower, across the thatch of auburn hair that ran from his navel down to his groin, where she lingered, a wry smile on her face. “Haven’t been an adventurer long, have you?”

“What—I—” The question was so sudden and  _ accurate _ that it caught Brynjolf off-guard. “How did you know?”

Nadine shrugged, brushing his cheekbone with her thumb. “Not nearly enough scars, darling.” She smiled, her hazel eyes glinting. “You learn to pick up on these things in my line of work. You know, things like your accent, your stature, your mannerisms. Just a guess, but I’m assuming you grew up somewhere like a farm? Or a mine, perhaps. Somewhere with a decent amount of manual labour, anyway.”

“Aye,” Brynjolf said, quietly. “Grew up working in a sawmill in the Rift.” 

“That accounts for your charming accent and strong build,” Nadine said, voice velvet-smooth. “And, by the flush on your face and your adorable expression—not to mention other things—I’m getting the impression you’re rather enjoying this so far. Am I right?”

Brynjolf fought the urge to shift on his feet. “Yes, Boss.”

“Not many scars, but I’m sure you could take quite a beating,” Nadine mused. “I wonder how you’d fare if I took you over my lap and spanked you for being so naughty?”

The moan that came out of Brynjolf’s mouth was entirely involuntary. Fairly quiet, too, but definitely not quiet enough to go unnoticed by Nadine. Even if he hadn’t, he was on display; there was no hiding anything at this point. The thought did nothing to abate his growing desire, now so hard he ached.

“Ah, so you do want it,” Nadine said, almost to herself. She leaned in, breath hot against Brynjolf’s ear. “Ask me nicely and you might get it.”

He could barely think, barely speak, his world reduced to her—the perfume lingering on her skin, the mead on her breath, the scent of her that made him want to tear off her clothes and take her right there. She was overpowering, and moreover, he wanted to be overpowered; completely at her mercy, her obedient plaything, claimed and used by her. Wanted to taste her, feel her over every inch of him, hear her cry out as he made her come—

“Gods,” he breathed, voice thick with lust. “Please, Nadine.”

She pushed him back onto the bed, brow arching in challenge. “Forgetting ourselves already, darling?” 

“Sorry, Boss. Won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not, because if it does,” she said, gripping his cock tight, “I’ll have to make sure I find a way to make the lesson stick. Did you know I’m a mage?” 

“N—no, Boss.” 

Nadine smirked. “I’ve picked up some… interesting uses for magicka over the years.” She gripped tighter, and lights danced in Brynjolf’s vision as sensation overwhelmed him. “Some pleasurable, some—well. I’m sure I won’t need to show you, will I?”

Words were beyond him. He could only shake his head, a soft whimper slipping out.

“Good boy,” Nadine cooed, and it should have been deeply insulting, but Brynjolf couldn’t help the warm swell that coursed through him at hearing the praise—sincere, however patronising it might be. “Lay across my lap.”

Brynjolf complied, feeling his erection pressing against Nadine’s dress, the fabric impossibly soft. Let his head rest against her thigh and the bed, hair spilling across his face. Willed himself into something resembling relaxation; breathe in, breathe out. Try not to focus on the way everything felt so much, so intense, so  _ good. _

He was expecting pain, hardness, impact. What he got was Nadine rubbing small circles across the small of his back, hands working down across his buttocks, gently caressing and kneading with a thoroughness that was somehow more intrusive than anything that had transpired so far.

“Such a pretty prize,” Nadine murmured, thumb stroking idly across his backside. “Although not a very well behaved one, hmm?”

Brynjolf squirmed in Nadine’s grip. “No, Boss.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“I—” Brynjolf fought not to grind himself against Nadine, crazed like an animal in heat. “I want you to spank me, Boss.”

The first strike hit down with more force than Brynjolf had anticipated—stinging and sharp, but still more of a warning than anything genuinely intended to hurt. For a moment, he considered goading Nadine a little— _ is that all you’ve got, Boss? _ —but then he remembered her previous threat, and decided to keep his mouth shut.

She struck him again, raining down quick biting smacks to his backside, heat beginning to build across his flesh. The pain was fleeting, momentary, and part of him wished there was more, that it’d last longer, bite harder. Still, what he was being given now wasn’t bad, not by a long stretch—it felt like a long-neglected itch being scratched, one that he didn’t even realise was there until Nadine had sunk her claws in, and now that she had he never wanted her to stop, every strike rocking him against the silk of her dress, the combination of friction and softness maddeningly delicious—

“Someone’s enjoying this entirely too much,” Nadine said, her free hand gripping his hair. “Think I need to try harder.”

The next cluster of strikes hit with unrestrained force, searing and rapid, and Brynjolf couldn’t stop the moan from spilling out of his mouth. It was loud and vulgar and unabashed, in stark contrast to the relative quietness of the tavern, and distantly he wondered if anyone could hear what was happening to him—the unmistakable clap of a hard hand against soft, supple flesh. He should have been mortified, but the thought only made him harder, his cock pressing down aggressively against Nadine’s clothed thigh. The woman was relentless, her small hands surprisingly adept at inflicting pain; one fisting tighter in his hair as the other continued to administer a thrashing, occasionally pausing to stroke circles across the abused flesh.

“So, so good,” she murmured, hand burning against his arse. “Taking your punishment for me.”

Brynjolf knew as well as Nadine did that it wasn’t just for her, but he didn’t care. Just let himself bask in the glow of her praise, adrenaline pumping through his body as he let himself breathe through it all, drooling onto the sheets.

Nadine cupped his chin in her hand, cheeks flushed as she smiled down at him. “Hopefully you’ve learned your lesson. Now, I wonder…” She ran her fingers through his hair, tugging lazily, “if that silver tongue of yours does more than just say pretty things.”

He knew, deep down, he was charming—truthfully, it was his one marketable skill, the only real reason anyone looked at him twice. Definitely the only reason he’d been chosen for this job, since he didn’t have any references as to his skill in thievery. But telling people what they wanted to hear as he flashed them a cheeky smile had gotten him far—this far, at least—and he had no intention of stopping now. Only, Nadine was turning the tables once again by even acknowledging it; charm and wit was usually his domain, and one that he was the only one privy to. But she could read him like a book, and that really took away any kind of power he had.

Just like she had been so far this evening. Stripping him bare, inch by inch, without even touching him.

And right now? His so-called silver tongue was so tangled he couldn’t form words. He just knew that he wanted her, plain and simple; her flesh under his mouth, the taste of her, him giving her anything she wanted.  _ Being _ anything she wanted.

He locked eyes with her, pleading without speaking. She smiled; part amused, part encouraging.

_ Ask me nicely and you might get it. _

“Please,” he mustered, after some effort. “Need to—”

Two fingers hooked into his mouth and rolled against his tongue, silencing him. “What you need to do,” she said, smearing her saliva-slick fingers across his lips, “is lick my cunt.”

Fire flushed in Brynjolf’s chest, burning through his veins as he sidled out of Nadine’s lap and buried himself between her legs. He’d never felt like this—animal, out of control, so consumed with lust he could barely see straight. Like he was being propelled by some unknown force, bigger than him, bigger than anyone, and he had to calm himself as he nearly tore off Nadine’s smallclothes. He breathed her in, revelled in it—the scent of sweat and sex and perfume that clung to her, and fuck, why did the smell of her make him want to devour her—

Her fingers wrapped themselves in his hair, nudging his head down, and the fact she was just as impatient and desperate as he was made his blood thrum. A growl escaped him, low and primal, his cock pressing hard against the mattress as he ran his tongue across the hot, slick parting of her cunt. Lapped at her like a man dying of thirst, nose brushing the neat thatch of curls atop her mound, rolling his tongue slowly over her clit.

“Mmm, that’s good,” she sighed, gripping his hair tighter. “Keep—mhm, keep doing that.” Another sigh, followed by a breathy little gasp that almost made Brynjolf lose his breath. “Feel free to use those fingers too…”

His fingers were currently busy sinking themselves into the soft flesh of Nadine’s thighs, but he wasn’t about to disobey—especially not when she was making those noises, grinding herself against Brynjolf’s face with increasing want. 

The first finger slid in easily, slick with spit and arousal. While inexperienced, Brynjolf at least had enough finesse to know he shouldn’t just ram it in roughly. He had no doubts that Nadine could take it—could take far more than he could give, most likely—but he ached to impress her, and he was happy to hear the approving sounds and murmurs she made as he crooked his finger in just the right way. As his ministrations grew in intensity, so too did Nadine’s movements, and he slipped in another finger, feeling the hot clench of her around them.

Hands were something he knew, even if not in this context. He made his living with his mouth and hands. But he’d never worked as hard as he was working now to bring Nadine to her pleasure, barely breathing as he tirelessly laved and pumped and stroked, feeling her begin to give underneath him. It was there in the way her body shook, in the way her breaths quickened and her murmurs reduced to something incomprehensible, in the way her nails dug into his scalp, leaving little half-moon indents that only he would know were there.

Her thighs clamped around his head as she came, knocking the breath from his lungs. She cried out, visceral and intense, body shuddering with effort. Brynjolf held her through it, fingers inside her slowing to something that wouldn’t overwhelm, her wetness flooding his mouth. Slowed his movements, and when his head was released, reluctantly pulled away, gasping for breath. Fuck, she looked beautiful like this—unkempt, loose, sweat shining on her skin. He climbed up the bed, taking her in his arms and pulling her in for a kiss, moaning into her as she fervently sucked the taste of herself from his bottom lip. Gods, he needed her, and he needed her now, never wanted anything else, but when he grasped his cock to line it up with Nadine’s entrance she stopped him, rolling him onto his back—

“Patience, darling.” She smiled, the amber of her hazel eyes burning like coals in a hearth. “My turn now.”

He didn’t have time to ask what she meant. Only felt the warmth of her tongue lap across the head of his cock, lapping up the precum that had accumulated there before taking him in her mouth. 

He’d been sucked off before, but not like this. Nothing even came close. Quick, messy fumbles in a storage shed or a barn, where he and the other party were just looking to get off; splinters and the overpowering odour of horseshit barely masking the smell of sex, more transactional than for pleasure. 

This was different. She sucked him slow, like he was something to be savoured, those small, clever hands of hers gently cupping his balls. Tended to him with the same enthusiasm he’d shown her, albeit with more skill, her tongue pressing and running up against his foreskin, and he was gone, lost in it. Sensation and pleasure threatened to overwhelm him and spill over before he had a chance to truly revel in the feeling, and he grasped at the sheets listlessly, breaths coming out in a strangled gasp.

“Nadine—Boss—please,” he choked out, trying his hardest not to thrust up into her mouth. “I can’t—I don’t—cannae last if you keep this up—”

Nadine pulled his cock out of her mouth with a slick pop. “That is the idea, darling,” she drawled, eyes all heat as she looked up at him. “I don’t want you to hold off. I just want you to come for me.” And then her mouth was back on him, the rhythm and fervour of her sucking almost enough to send him over the edge.

This time, he didn’t try to hold back. Just let the sensations roll over him like a wave, building hot and hard and furious in his groin. Allowed himself to wrap his fingers in Nadine’s hair and buck up into her mouth, and she didn’t try to stop him, just met his movements in kind—give, take, yours, mine. 

Drawing his pleasure from him and pulling him apart, strand by strand. 

When he lost himself, it was for her. Every moan, every twitch, all for her, and she hummed approvingly as she swallowed him down, holding him through the aftershocks. She finally pulled herself off him, and climbed up his body, pressing her lips to his and pushing her tongue into his mouth, still covered in his seed. If he’d taken a moment to think of it, he might have recoiled, but there was something so strangely primal and erotic about it in the moment that he could only accept, tasting their mingled pleasure strong on his tongue. 

“Fuck…” he breathed as soon as they broke away from each other. “I… I haven’t felt like that, ever.”

Nadine smiled at him, wide and indulgent, apples of her cheeks rosied. “Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.” She softly carded his hair, lightly scratching his scalp, and he couldn’t help but lean into it. “I’m assuming I wasn’t your first? You seemed to know what you were doing.” The corner of her mouth curved. “Mostly.”

“Not my first,” Brynjolf said, still dazed. “First to do it like that, though.” He looked at her, reverence swelling in his chest. “I—I wanted to take you to bed, but—”

Her thumb brushed across his lip, quieting him. “While I admire your enthusiasm, I’m also aware that men aren’t usually ready to go so soon after,” Nadine said, laughter lacing her voice. “I know you’re a strapping young lad, probably have stamina for days, but even a body like yours has limits. Besides, I wasn’t planning on sleeping with you.” Brynjolf’s reaction must have shown, because she softened, stroking his cheek gently. “Not like that, just—everything in due time, yes? I’d hardly be much of a boss if I fucked my workforce to exhaustion.”

“Can if you want,” Brynjolf murmured, nuzzling into her. “Wouldn’t mind.”

Nadine chuckled. “I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Her hand trailed down his chest, grazing tenderly across his skin and the shock of auburn hair that covered it. “But we’ve still work to do, and that comes first.” She grinned, shameless. “Well—in a manner of speaking.”

“Work?” Brynjolf did his best to sit up, body still heavy and lethargic from the afterglow. “Thought I was—”

“What, because you’d bungled the job, you were kicked out, free to go?” Nadine eyed him carefully. “No, if I was that kind of boss I wouldn’t get anywhere. My people fix their problems, make things right. And we always finish the job,” she added, with a wink.

_ Totally, entirely, absolutely fucked.  _

“What do I need to do, Boss?”


	5. Hard Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, super belated (this is June 29th's prompt), but I'm nothing if not persistent!  
> Trope: Flirting Under Fire (free space!)  
> Pairing: Marcurio/Azarahd  
> Rating: E (smut, graphic depictions of violence)
> 
> Azarahd is [Topsy's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/pseuds/Thanatopsiturvy) OC, and you can read all about his adventures fucking his way across Skyrim [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1285667) He's a fantastic character to both read and write, so thanks so much for letting me borrow him. <3

The Silver-Blood tavern was lively and loud, Markarth’s residents bustling about and drinking and celebrating the end of their workday. The scent of meat roasting over the hearth filled Azarahd’s nostrils, and he clung to his tankard of ale, his tail swishing restlessly. Of all the holds in Skyrim, the Reach was far from his favourite, and the sooner he could get what he needed to done, the better. For several reasons.

He ran his hand across his leathers, over the fresh scar lining his stomach, and felt the only too familiar pang run through him. Of what, he didn’t know—anger, hurt, regret? Maybe what he felt didn’t have a name, couldn’t be put into words.

It had been a long, confusing few weeks for him, and he was still trying to put the pieces together. He’d had plenty of time to try, bed-bound in Winterhold long enough for him to feel like he’d start climbing the walls from boredom, being force-fed Karliah’s foul tasting but highly effective healing and pain potions. Running over each detail in painstaking depth, wondering why he hadn’t noticed his Guildmaster was lying and plotting to kill him. He’d used him as a pawn—used him in other ways, too—and left him to die on the floor of an old Nordic burial tomb. The thought of him being back at the Guild, letting the people he called friends believe he wasn’t lying to their faces—

Mercer needed to pay, and he’d do everything he could to make sure he did.

When Azarahd offered to retrieve the Falmer notes, both Enthir and Karliah had insisted he be accompanied by another. Any other time, Azarahd might have taken umbrage to the suggestion—he didn’t need to be babysat, he was the fucking Dragonborn—but he’d never come so close to death before, and as much as it pained him to admit, for the first time in his life he was scared. Backup wouldn’t just be appreciated, it’d likely be essential. And the person Enthir had hired was apparently a trained mage, one he knew from both his days as a student at the College and from around Riften when he visited on Guild business.

Whoever they were, they sounded more than capable, which was exactly what Azarahd needed. 

He just hoped they’d arrive soon. He was growing restless, eager to get the job done and return to Karliah. Not only that, but he itched to fight again—coming so close to death had been utterly crushing, every inch of power ripped from him. He felt the need to scrabble it back, do what he did best; brandish his blade and watch his enemies fall at his feet. He’d spent the past two nights in his room sharpening and oiling his sword, getting into a near meditative state as he polished its surface to a dangerous gleam. He was about to pull it out of its sheath and admire it again, but a gust of wind shook him from his thoughts as the tavern doors were thrown open.

Azarahd wasn’t sure who he was expecting his escort to be—Enthir had been vague on the details—but he was still taken aback when the mage entered the tavern, shrugging his head out of the hood of his robes.

He wasn’t a great hulking Nord, but he didn’t look like a frail thing, either. Not like many other mages Azarahd had seen, their frames deceptively fragile. This man looked like he had at least some degree of strength that wasn’t arcane, and already that piqued Azarahd’s interest. If he had to guess, the man was Imperial—olive-skinned, his dark hair gathered into a loose ponytail. He tucked a loose strand behind his ear as he ordered his drink, smirking wryly at the loud, buxom barmaid as she handed him a bottle of mead.

 _Not entirely bad looking, even if the facial hair left something to be desired,_ Azarahd thought as he stared into his tankard. Not that he was interested. He had bigger fish to fry.

“I’m assuming you’re Azarahd?”

Azarahd looked up, ears twitching involuntarily. The mage grinned at him in a way that seemed entirely too knowing for Azarahd’s liking, extending a hand to shake. Reluctantly, he took it, the man’s skin surprisingly soft against his own calloused pads.

“Yes, that’s me. I take it you’re Enthir’s friend?”

The man laughed as he sat down in the chair opposite, leaning back. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose,” he said, taking a long swig of his mead and leaving Azarahd to ponder the implication of that sentence. “Marcurio of Riften. Best spellsword this side of the Abecean.”

“That’s quite the claim,” Azarahd replied, sizing up Marcurio. 

“I’ll have plenty of opportunity to prove that claim when I fight alongside you.” He scratched that questionable goatee of his as he smiled, smug and sure. “Speaking of which, what is the job? Enthir was sketchy on the details.”

Azarahd swallowed, gauging how much he should tell this man. “We’re gaining access to a potentially dangerous laboratory, to—” He paused. “Gain access to some essential information.” 

“Doesn’t sound that dangerous,” Marcurio scoffed. 

“Yes, well,” Azarahd sighed, “we’re not exactly invited guests.”

Marcurio looked back at him, aghast. “You expect me to break the law?” 

Azarahd frowned, puzzled. “I—I thought—”

The stern expression on Marcurio’s face dissipated, and laughter spilled from his lips. “I’m joking, you s’wit. I know what Enthir does for a living. And, given I’m based in Riften, I’m no stranger to a set of Thieves Guild issued leathers.” He snorted. “Too easy. Of course I’ll help.”

Azarahd wasn’t sure if he was amused or deeply annoyed. Perhaps a bit of both. Marcurio emitted charm, but it was the kind undercut with the sort of smugness and self-assurance that made it almost obnoxious. Azarahd took another long drink from his tankard, sighing internally.

“I already went over to meet Calcelmo. It was obvious he wasn’t going to give me access to his research, regardless of how much I tried to butter him up.” He scratched the fur at the back of his neck. “Offered to give me the key to the museum if I cleared a massive spider from the excavation site under the Keep, but that didn’t seem like a sensible use of our time or energy.”

“So, how do you plan to get access?”

Azarahd grinned, pulling the key from his pocket. “Already taken care of the first part. As for the second,” he said, running his fingers over the key, “I have some ideas.”

 

* * *

 

Understone Keep was still, the Jarl and his court already in their chambers. The only bodies left were a handful of guards—two manning the main entrance, and another, predictably, outside the museum’s.

“Care to fill me in on how you plan to do this?” Marcurio hissed under his breath. He was already beginning to irritate Azarahd, and he desperately hoped the man was more than just words and bluster. 

He turned around, staring evenly at Marcurio. “You’re going to hide behind that pillar,” he said, gesturing toward the column of crumbling stone to the side of him, “and I’m going to create a diversion. Clear enough?”

Marcurio sneered. “Crystal.”

“Good.” Azarahd tucked himself behind the pillar opposite, taking a deep breath. Let the words form in his head, then on his lips, forcing them from his lungs in one bellowing, primal shout.

That’s what it had felt like, at least. What it sounded like was a cry for help from the far end of the corridor, and just as Azarahd had intended, the guard at the museum door took the bait. He ran towards the source of the sound, all jangling armour and weapon at the ready, and Azarahd gave Marcurio a nod. They sprinted up the stairs, out of sight of the guard, Azarahd turning the key in the bronze Dwemer door.

“Ready?” The lock gave a satisfying clink as it yielded. “I’ve no idea what’s on the other side, so if you’d like to back out, now’s the time.”

Marcurio raised a brow, lightning licking at his fingers. “I was born ready.”

Azarahd nodded, pushing the door open with as much stealth as he could manage and sneaking inside.

A corridor awaited them, stone and bronze and unmistakably Dwemer. Distantly Azarahd could hear the telltale clank and grind of machinery, metal against metal, and over it, the thick Nordic drawl of a guard. He cocked his head, gesturing for Marcurio to follow, hiding behind a broad stone pillar.

By his estimate, there were a few of them—three at least, possibly as many as five. The rest of the room appeared to be open, so taking a stealthy approach might be futile. From Marcurio’s expression, he seemed to be thinking the same.

 _Get ready,_ Azarahd mouthed, gripping the handle of his blade and stepping out into the room.

Surprisingly, it took a beat before the guards noticed him, strolling through the room like he wasn’t intruding. 

“Hey!” the guard called, shaken. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Azarahd smiled, dangerous and predatory. “You’re right,” he said, pulling his sword from its sheath, “I shouldn’t.” With one quick, fluid motion, he thrust the sword directly into the guard’s stomach, piercing through his flimsy leather armour. 

His world slowed as chaos descended, the remainder of the guards flying towards him in a frenzy. The air crackled with energy, and the guard closest to Azarahd fell to the ground, his body spasming as lightning coursed through it.

“Was wondering when you were going to join in,” Azarahd called behind him, parrying a blow from an incoming war axe. The men that had been stationed here were sloppy, poorly trained; either barely old enough to fight, or so old that they’d lost their edge. Azarahd wasn’t sure which camp the guard he was currently fighting fell into, but a few well-placed swings of his sword reduced him to an unmoving pile of flesh and blood soon enough. Lightning flashed in his periphery, and Marcurio laughed, back flush against his.

“What, and not get to see you in action?” The last guard fell to the ground, sparks jolting off him to seek their next target. “That would be a shame. Enthir told me you were good with a sword, he just didn’t tell me which kind.”

Azarahd turned around, grinning, adrenaline rushing through his veins. “Maybe if you play your cards right I’ll show you how good I am with the other one.” He wiped his blade on a dead guard’s gambeson before sheathing it and moving forward.

The museum was a monument to everything Dwemer; books and tools and metals in display cases, unworking versions of Dwemer artillery and weaponry set up on platforms. In the middle of the room, a Dwarven Centurion towered over it all, motionless but no less imposing for it.

“Ever seen one of those in action?”

“Once or twice,” Marcurio said, lifting a cog off the table and examining it. “Nasty fuckers. Tried to keep my distance.” He shrugged, setting it back down, seemingly satisfied. “You?”

Azarahd nodded. “Too many times to count.” He pushed onward, up a set of stairs to another heavy bronze door, fitting the key into its lock. “I’m no stranger to Dwemer ruins, and if this is anything like them, it’s going to be teeming with traps.”

“Just as well your travelling companion’s no slouch, then,” Marcurio grinned. 

Gods, he was an arrogant bastard. Azarahd wanted to hate him. But he found himself warming to the man despite himself; his cocky, self-assured manner, his sharp wit. As far as fighting partners went, he was damned fun. Marcurio flexed his fingers and rolled his wrists, muscles tightening in his toned arms. 

Probably fun in other ways, too.

“Well?” Marcurio looked at him, wearing a shit-eating grin. “After you.” 

When they stepped into the laboratory, the unmistakable sound of Dwemer industry met them; gears grinding, the hiss of steam. Every surface held some piece of history, countless years eroded into its exterior, and as they turned the corner bronze grates and pipes met them. There was enough metal to smelt down and armour the entire city guard in this vestibule alone, and as Azarahd mentally calculated exactly how much the contents of Calcelmo’s laboratory would be worth, footsteps echoed out, clipped against the stone. He felt his ears swivel, seeking the source of the noise—just behind the bronze bars, he guessed.

He looked at Marcurio, inclining his head. “Keep watch.” A sour look started to form on Marcurio’s face, a snarky retort presumably poised on his tongue, but it was cut short.

To Azarahd’s slight dismay, the mass of Dwarven metal that seemed to adorn every surface of the laboratory wasn’t the only metal present. The patrolling guard was kitted out in it, their steel armour blending into the backdrop of endless grey stone.

“Sure you’re glad you’ve more than just brute force on your side now,” Marcurio said, electricity forming in his palm.

Azarahd itched the back of his neck. “Yes, well,” he muttered, “at least brute force doesn’t make my fur stand on end.” 

“True,” Marcurio mused, nodding at the shimmering oil that pooled on the floor. “But can brute force do this?” Lightning loosed from his fingers, igniting the puddle, flames engulfing the guard. Pained screams came from them as they fell prone, fire licking at their flesh and the fur lining their armour. Another spark flew from Marcurio, effectively silencing the now-deceased guard, and Azarahd breathed a quiet sigh of relief. As far as painful deaths went, fire was high on the list.

“Was that really necessary?” Azarahd hissed. “Couldn’t just strike him with lightning?”

Marcurio shrugged. “I could, but where’s the theatre?” He grinned, amber eyes glinting with mischief. “Wanted to put on a show for the Dragonborn.”

The breath was knocked from Azarahd’s lungs. “I—how did you know?”

“I actually didn’t,” Marcurio said, smile now smug and shameless, “but I had my suspicions. Heard rumours.” Much to Azarahd’s dismay, he seemed impervious to the scowl he was receiving. “Also, the trick you pulled outside to move the guard? I’ll admit, that piqued my interest.” The corner of his mouth curled, his expression something less cocky and more genuine. He licked his lips, and Azarahd couldn’t help but think of them wrapped around his cock, taking his length down his throat. He would be much, much more bearable with something in his mouth.

He cleared his throat, attempting to push the image out of his mind. There were more pressing matters, like the fact they’d killed a not inconsiderable number of Markarth’s finest, most of which were in a pile back in the museum. If anyone stepped through those doors, it was just a matter of time.

Azarahd sidestepped the flaming, bubbling corpse draped across the stairs and snuck deeper into the laboratory, Marcurio’s footsteps near silent behind him. He hated Dwemer ruins—they were always too vast, full of rooms and dead ends and mechanisms that could likely kill him if he wasn’t careful, and Calcelmo’s lab was no exception. Every corner seemed to contain some mystery valve or alcove or, on one occasion, a staff-controlled dwarven spider which Marcurio had taken it upon himself to control. He wielded its staff like a mad emperor, entirely too cavalier, grinning maniacally as he insisted it’d come in handy.

On any other day, Azarahd would have told him to put the thing down and shut up. If it had been anyone else, he definitely would’ve. But something about Marcurio gave him pause—he might be a showboat and a loose cannon, but he couldn’t deny that so far he’d been impeccable at his job. He was clearly as skilled a mage as he said he was, and usually that would annoy Azarahd, but instead he felt something like admiration for the man. Focused, calm under pressure, and his levity was surprisingly infectious. Not that he’d ever admit it to Marcurio—the man’s ego was large enough—but he could probably learn some things.

He doubted they involved mechanical, staff-operated spiders, but he was willing to let Marcurio give it a try.

Their path took them to a long corridor, where the source of the hissing seemed to be. The walkway was lined with bronze grates that a handful of guards paced along, their boots clanking against it, the metal somehow still uncorroded despite the damp. It clung to Azarahd’s fur, thick and uncomfortable, and a droplet of moisture fell from the ceiling down the back of his armour. 

He jumped, a hiss escaping him. One of the guards spun around, seeking the source of the noise, and Azarahd cursed inwardly. He gripped the handle of his sword, preparing for conflict, when he heard the soft, chittering clink of the Dwemer spider creeping across the walkway. It made a beeline for the guard, scuffing their boots with one of its sharp metal legs.

“Stupid fucking thing,” the guard said, trying to kick it away. “No wonder the Dwarves are extinct. Own creations probably killed them.” He rounded the corner, loudly griping to one of his colleagues.

“Fairly sure the Nords had something to do with it too,” Azarahd muttered under his breath. “ _Wafiit._ ”

Marcurio twirled his staff like a baton. “Oooh, look who knows their history.” He tossed it to his other hand, surprisingly dexterous. “Dragonborn and a lore buff.”

Azarahd frowned at Marcurio, but inwardly he preened, secretly enjoying the praise. “There are many things you do not know about me.”

“I’m sure. Maybe once we’re done, you can fill me in.”

The double entendre was painfully obvious. Marcurio had all the subtlety of a stone lobbed through a stained-glass window, which in fairness probably worked for him. He was attractive, talented—that likely got him far. And, Azarahd reflected, it would probably continue to get him far. He could do with a distraction, and everything about Marcurio was maddeningly, deliciously distracting.

His blood still simmered under the surface, regret bitter on his tongue, and nothing would work that out of his system like a good fuck.

They ventured deeper into the heart of the building, corridors and stairs winding their way to yet another vestibule. The place seemed to be chock full of them; pockets of space amongst the veins that connected them, perfectly suited for an ambush. They managed to sidestep the guards stationed there before coming to what was presumably the main base of operations, sunk down into the stone and barred by bronze. Azarahd peered through, spotting yet more guards and what looked to be Calcelmo’s nephew poring over a pile of scrolls.

“Oh, a fellow mage,” Marcurio murmured, pleased. “Finally, somebody interesting to take on.”

Azarahd was inclined to agree. Other than their upgraded armour, the guards patrolling this part of the building didn’t seem any more competent than Markarth’s regular force. It was obvious that while Calcelmo took the security of his findings seriously, the people he’d hired didn’t. Honestly, that suited Azarahd fine. A lazy, unprepared fighter was much easier to take down.

Marcurio nodded down to the vestibule. “Now?”

“Now.”

He pointed the staff to the centre of the room, and down the spider scuttled, flexing its tiny metal forelegs. Calcelmo’s nephew looked up, attention drawn from the noise, rushing towards the creature.

“Oh, Bthar! What are you doing so far from your room?” His eyes narrowed. “Has someone been tampering with you?”

The spider stood, almost coyly, scratching its legs across the floor before directing a spark at the mer. He fell to the floor, fear and anger writ large across his face, cheeks bronze with rage.

“Guards! Intruder!”

Two men bounded across the room, one slashing at the spider with his sword.

“Not the spider, you idiot! The person controlling it!”

The guard appeared to pay no mind to the mer, viciously hacking at the spider still loosing spark after spark from its body. Azarahd pulled his sword loose from its sheath, just in time to meet the guard barrelling his way up the stairs. He cleaved his head off in one brutal slice, the man’s corpse falling to the floor in two parts. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he rushed to attack the other guard, tackling him to the ground and sinking his fangs into the man’s jugular.

The mer was on his knees, sparks of static still jolting through him, bent over the mangled pile of metal that had once been the spider.

“Bthar… my poor Bthar…”

“Yeah, it’s a fucker when that happens,” Marcurio said, lifting the staff and whacking the mer across the head with it. 

Azarahd watched, mouth agape as Calcelmo’s nephew fell to the floor like a ragdoll. “What happened to challenging a fellow mage?”

Marcurio shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “Sometimes brute force does work better.” He looked down, placing the staff next to the spider parts and a hand on his heart. “Bthar, we hardly knew you. May the Gods rest your… well, I suppose technically automatons don’t have souls.”

“Can we go?” Azarahd grumbled, tail swishing impatiently. His heart was still pounding in his chest, every fibre of his being ready to pounce. He felt ready to take down the entire city guard, but he’d rather avoid being in that position. He thought. He could feel the rage bubble up, the thirst for vengeance. 

Marcurio raised a brow, but smiled back in that infuriating way of his. “After you, sir.”

Another imposing, ornate door stood before them, and Azarahd took a breath, prepared to slaughter whatever was on the other side. Let them try to take him down. He’d tear them to shreds with his claws and teeth and voice.

He’d been prepared for a fight, bloody and brutal. Instead, the cool night’s air washed over him as he stepped onto the balcony, Markarth glimmering dim and quiet before him as the waterfall to his side crashed loud in his ears. It should have calmed him. Instead, he felt frustrated, cheated. His hands formed fists at his sides, and he clenched his jaw, fury building inside him with no outlet.

“I don’t want to pry,” Marcurio said, quiet at his side, “but can I ask what brought you here? Seems like you’re motivated by more than coin.”

Really, it was none of his damned business. He didn’t need to tell him.

Azarahd sighed. “I am.” He leaned over the balcony, taking a deep breath. “Long story, but I’m gathering information that may help a friend who’s been wrongfully accused.” He considered his next sentence carefully. “It might also help me track down the man who nearly killed me.”

“Someone nearly took you down?” Marcurio let out a low whistle. “Must have been one hell of an opponent.”

Azarahd bristled, the scar on his stomach twinging. “It was more… complicated than that.” His ears flattened. “Caught me when I was vulnerable. Took advantage.” He ran his fingers over the stone, focusing on every bump and crevice in its surface. “Can’t blame him. I’d have done the same if the tables were turned.”

“Would you?” He turned around to see Marcurio looking at him, disconcertingly earnest. “Admittedly I haven’t known you for long, but you don’t strike me as the type to play on the emotions of someone who trusts you.”

“Perhaps you don’t know me well enough,” Azarahd said, something sharp in his tone. “Perhaps you’ll end up with a knife in your belly, too.”

Marcurio looked him in the eye, unfazed. “I think if you really wanted to do that, you’d have done it by now.” 

“So what’s stopped you?” Azarahd stared back evenly, letting the question hang.

“Well, for one? You’re my client,” Marcurio said. “And while I might have been paid in advance by Enthir, ensuring my contract remains alive is my top priority. After all, can’t get repeat business from a dead person.”

Azarahd laughed, humourless. “Well, aren’t you a good mercenary.”

“The best,” Marcurio shot back. “And if I thought you were going to kill me, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The waterfall roared in the background, harsh and constant. Azarahd forced his fists to unclench, claws retracting, exhaling slowly through his nose.

“Then, can I ask—” Azarahd took another deep breath. “Exactly why you’ve been making passes at me all this time?”

Marcurio grinned, less tense now. “Call it a lack of professional standards.” His eyes gleamed, darting across Azarahd, that same rich Dwemer bronze that dotted their surroundings. “Don’t often get clients like you.”

“What? Khajiit?” Nothing had given Azarahd cause to assume racism so far, but it always lurked beneath the surface, especially in a country so insular.

Marcurio’s eyes widened. “Well, I suppose I don’t see many Khajiit, but no, that’s not what I meant.” He looked out onto the horizon, pushing up his sleeves. “Someone challenging, interesting, not only out for themselves.” He gave him a knowing look. “Someone honest.”

“And how do you know that what I’ve told you so far is the truth?”

“Because Enthir told me.” He shrugged. “I never take on a job without knowing all the details.”

 _Of course._ Azarahd sighed, irritatingly mollified. “Now that we’ve got that cleared, can we go get what we came here for?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Marcurio said, bolting up the stairs.

The room they stepped into was more a ruin than an inhabitable space, stone crumbling from the columns and ceilings; rugs dull and threadbare. Everything was old and worn, and it smelled like all old buildings—dust and damp, the faint scent of decay lingering underneath. A raised platform towered over them, some ancient stone illuminated in the centre, one solitary candle flickering brightly at its base. Somehow, it seemed more sombre than the rest of the laboratory, more still, and it was only when Azarahd noticed how quiet it was that he realised why.

“Where are the guards?”

Marcurio scratched his chin. “Perhaps they’re not allowed in Calcelmo’s quarters. Someone as protective as that, he likely wouldn’t let the common rabble guard his life’s work.”

That was a fair point, Azarahd conceded. “What else, then? Traps? Centurions?”

“Possibly,” Marcurio murmured. “Wouldn’t hurt to stay alert.”

They paced carefully around the platform, poised for danger as they sought out the path upward, and it occurred to Azarahd just how ornate this particular wing was compared to the others—curved shapes etched into stone, solid bronze pots firmly lodged in each corner. Something about this felt final, and he knew he was getting close, even if his fur itched in a way he couldn’t explain.

The next vestibule they reached confirmed those suspicions. Nearly everything in the space was Dwemeri in origin; gleaming bronze furniture filled with solid metal cookware. Intricately crafted stone bowls sat proudly on display, gold rimmed and butter-smooth, a mishmash of potions and ingredients by their side. Whatever space wasn’t filled with items of Dwemer origin was crammed with books—heaving from shelves, sprawled on tables. And, on the walls, countless rubbings of the same patterns carved into the columns, curved and mysterious and rendered in charcoal.

Azarahd had no idea where to begin, but what he sought had to be in here.

Half an hour later and what he was no closer to finding what he was looking for. Every book in the room had been opened, and every one of them had been written in Common with no other script to be found. Azarahd threw the book in his hand onto the table, frustrated, nose itching with dust.

“Could be we’re looking in the wrong place,” Marcurio said, raising a brow.

Azarahd bristled. “It’s the only place left.”

“True, but—” Marcurio snatched one of the pieces of parchment off the wall. “There’s a lot of these around. Maybe the language isn’t in a book.”

Fucking scholars. “Are you saying it’s carved into the godsdamned wall?” Azarahd suppressed a growl. “None of these shapes look like anything in this journal.”

Marcurio pondered. “What about that stone we saw on the way in?”

The stone stood pride of place atop the platform, candlelight dancing across its surface. Tall enough to hide them if anybody showed up, which was beginning to become more of a concern. As they got closer, the etchings started to take shape, and Azarahd had never been so happy to see letters he barely recognised. He pressed parchment against the stone, rubbing charcoal over its surface, text forming as he did so. Ten scrolls later and he was on his knees, tucking everything he needed away in his backpack.

“It’s all right,” Marcurio said, a smug grin on his face. He leaned against the stone. “You don’t need to tell me I’m a genius. I already know.”

“Do you also know you’re infuriating?”

Marcurio laughed. “Been told once or twice.” He let his gaze linger over Azarahd. “Although... could be you’re just,” he raised a brow, “tense.”

“Is that so?” Azarahd moved closer to Marcurio, getting into his space. His whiskers twitched. “And what would you suggest to remedy that?”

The answer came in the form of Marcurio’s breath hot against his cheek and his hand around his neck as he pulled Azarahd in for a kiss, urgent and starved. A growl pulled low from Azarahd’s throat as he returned it in kind, his tongue working Marcurio open, straddling him and pushing him harder against the stone. They pawed at each other, Marcurio’s fingers raking through his fur as Azarahd pushed his own under the man’s robes, his claws grazing soft, hot skin.

Fuck, he’d missed this, all of this. He didn’t care if there were guards after him, ready to spill his blood. Let them try. He licked a slow stripe along Marcurio’s jaw, down his neck, biting down just hard enough to draw a groan from the man; his pulse throbbing against Azarahd’s teeth, cock hard against his leg. Azarahd’s own strained uncomfortably against his leathers, demanding attention, and he wasted no time unlacing them and pulling himself free as Marcurio followed suit.

Azarahd looked down at Marcurio, taking him in—eyes blown wide, now more black than bronze, cock leaking against his robes. He grinned.

“You look desperate,” Azarahd said cooly, running his hand over Marcurio’s balls and gripping him at the base.

A gasp came from Marcurio as Azarahd started to work him. “Course I’m fucking desperate,” he breathed, cheeks flushed. “Wanted this ever since we met.”

Marcurio was a lot of things—quick-witted, cocky. But, as of yet, Azarahd hadn’t seen him so candid. All his affected attitude was gone, and it made Azarahd burn, made him want to take him apart just so he could see the most honest version of the man. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, retrieving a bottle of oil and pulling out the stopper with his teeth, feral and wanting. Poured it into his hand, working it slow and slick over Marcurio’s cock, thumb stroking over the head and smearing in the precum that leaked from the tip.

His breaths were coming out faster now; more ragged, less controlled, and a purr rumbled from Azarahd’s chest. 

“I’m assuming self control isn’t your strong suit?” Azarahd let go of Marcurio’s cock, grinning as he whined frustratedly, pouring more oil into his hand. 

Marcurio narrowed his eyes, sighing. “What gave it away?” He bit his lip, exhaling as Azarahd took himself in hand, languorously fucking his own fist. “S’been—fuck, it’s been so long. Too long.”

“Likewise, _walami_.” He wrapped his hand around both their lengths, working them together, slick and hot. “Let’s hope I’m not out of practice.” Pressed his muzzle into Marcurio’s neck, taking in the scent of him—juniper and sweat and desire. It really had been too long, and already Azarahd felt himself begin to lose control, balls hitching and pleasure building hot and urgent in his groin.

“ _Serush,_ ” he growled in Marcurio’s ear, licking a hot, wet stripe across his neck. Marcurio shivered under him, cock solid in his hand as it rubbed against Azarahd’s, and fuck, it was so good, made him want to never stop—

Something metal clunked in the distance; the unmistakable sound of Dwemer doors. Azarahd’s ears twitched, seeking out the source of the sound.

“This is where we’re supposed to be guarding?” The voice was thick, low; unmistakably Nordic.

Another voice rang out, softer. “That’s what the Captain said. Apparently Aicantar got knocked unconscious.”

The first guard snorted. “Well, they can’t have gone far,” he said. “Keep an eye on the door, and I’ll go investigate.”

Azarahd looked back down at Marcurio. His eyes were wide, and he chewed his lip nervously. Gratifyingly, his cock was still hard against Azarahd’s, and he didn’t seem to be making any sort of effort to move.

They’d have limited time, but the stone hid them from view well enough. Azarahd grinned, pressed his free hand against Marcurio’s mouth, and pumped his fist faster. 

Marcurio’s breaths came out in plumes, hot and hard against Azarahd’s fingers, muffled moans escaping him despite himself. If he was scared, it wasn’t immediately evident—in fact, Azarahd guessed he might be enjoying the danger, the prospect of getting caught. He kissed Marcurio’s neck, sloppy and desperate, sinking his teeth in until he tasted copper and felt the warm spill of Marcurio’s seed against his hand and cock. Everything was erupting in him now—adrenaline, danger, lust—and he pulled his own orgasm from himself with a growl, spattering Marcurio’s robes in the process.

With a few slow licks at Marcurio’s neck, he pulled away, ears swivelling to pinpoint the guard’s location.

“I—fuck,” Marcurio whispered, breathless. He lolled back, fucked out, hair half loose from its ponytail. “I’m a mess.”

Azarahd stroked his thumb across Marcurio’s bottom lip. “Perhaps I can help with that.” He moved his hand down, muttering low under his breath until their shared pleasure began to disappear. 

Marcurio stared down, brow raising. “Never told me you knew any magicka.”

“You never asked.” Azarahd tucked his cock back into his leathers. “Like I said, there is much you don’t know about me.”

The afterglow was beginning to dissipate, the reality of the situation they were in flooding back to Azarahd. Two guards underneath, one guarding the door. He had no doubt he could take them; his worry was them escaping and disclosing details. Hopefully the whack Marcurio had delivered to Aicantar’s head had been enough to knock the memory of them both from it, too.

Marcurio peered behind the stone. “So, that thing you did earlier. Where you threw your voice.” He looked back at Azarahd. “Think you could do that again in a second? I have a plan.”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Good. Give me a second.” He whispered something under his breath, energy gathering in his hands, giving it one final push. Shapes shimmered across the floor, unseen by the guard at the door. “Now.”

Azarahd focused his own shout at the point just out of sight, feeling the whisper form into something clattering and booming. Watched both guards take the bait and run into the lightning rune, falling to the floor as electricity jolted through their bodies.

Neither of them waited to see if the guards survived the rune. They slinked out of the laboratory and into the night, untracked and unnoticed.

The shock of cold air hit Azarahd hard as he walked outside, his fur still damp with sweat at parts. He’d made it. Now all he had to do was get out of Markarth and make it back to Winterhold with the information.

“So, is this where we part ways?” Marcurio sounded almost pensive.

Azarahd sighed. He never liked this part; one party more invested after they’d fucked, touches and gazes lingering just a little too long. That said, he felt indebted to Marcurio in a way; like he should offer security and protection, even if that defeated the purpose of their entire professional relationship.

“We’ve still to escape the Reach. I owe you that much, at least.”

Marcurio frowned. “You don’t _owe_ me anything.” He stood back. “And I’m not looking to be anything other than your mercenary, either. Obviously if you’d like to keep mixing business with pleasure, I’m not going to object,” he grinned, “but I don’t see this as anything other than what it is, and ultimately, I was hired to protect you. That’s what I intend to do.”

“Oh.” Azarahd, for once in his life, was stunned. “Sorry, I’m… not entirely used to this.” 

“Is it a problem?”

Azarahd laughed. “No. It’s… refreshing. I think.”

“Glad to hear,” Marcurio said, his usual self-assured demeanour reappearing. “Well. Shall we make our escape? Hopefully the Altmer hasn’t woken up yet.”

“Actually—” Azarahd motioned to the waterfall rushing to the side of them, “I had a better idea.”

Marcurio snorted. “You’re joking.” Azarahd stared back, stone-faced, and his expression of amusement swiftly shifted into horror. “Fuck, you’re not joking, are you?”

“Humour tends not to be my strong suit.”

“Agree to disagree. But—” Marcurio looked down, face paling. “Making that jump? How deep is the water at the bottom?”

Azarahd huffed through his nose. “Enough.” He grabbed Marcurio’s hand. “And if you’re worried about hurting yourself,” he said, grinning, “be thankful you’re travelling with the Dragonborn.” He loosed a shout, louder this time, and both his and Marcurio’s bodies faded into something intangible. “Now, do you trust me?”

“Like I said before,” Marcurio said, “If you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Good.” Azarahd gripped his hand tight, the one thing either of them could touch. “Then take a breath and get ready.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta'agra translation guide:
> 
> wafiit = idiot  
> walami = fling, lover  
> serush = beautiful


	6. Any Port in a Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Huddling for Warmth  
> Pairing: Rana/Rath  
> Rating: M (mentions of drugs/addiction/withdrawal, mentions of violence)
> 
> Rana is my own OC, previously featured in [this one-shot here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17694122), and Rath is part [spiney's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiney/works) OC, part [mongoose_bite's.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mongoose_bite/pseuds/mongoose_bite) Read about her in [Reach Heaven By Violence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/941143/chapters/1835114) and [The Temporal Myth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934151/chapters/37154444), two incredible fics which I can't recommend enough.

For as long as she could remember, Rana had been running.

Halfway across Sentinel when she was old enough to make a break for it, relieving people of coin and valuables and, on more than one occasion, teeth. Down to the coast, out onto the sea, clawing her way up to commandeering her own vessel. Across Elsweyr, chasing after anything that might stop the itch of being moving yet stationary aboard a ship every fucking day, then Cyrodiil, where she chased after it like a starving dog, trying to shake the fear and guilt from her shoulders even as it stalked her. Ran all the way to Skyrim, where she was now, having said goodbye to a companion who tethered her to her past. She breathed, trying to let it run through her system, alongside what she vowed was her final dose of skooma, courtesy of the Argonians down at the Windhelm docks. 

She’d spent her whole life running, and now she was tired. Ached down to her bones, sick of chasing after gold and skooma and anything else that might promise a quick, temporary fix. Years of fatigue washed over her like the biting cold of the sea, and she shuddered, pulling the furs she’d procured closer into her. She’d had to clear an entire band’s worth of bandits out of this shelter, which had been made easier by the skooma—made her sharper and more alert while taking the edge off the viscerality of killing another human being. Made it easier to haul the corpses out into the snow, where they’d be an easier meal for any wolves who might make their way along here, the cold delaying the decomposition process. 

Which was handy, but also made withdrawals a thousand times worse, the chill hitting her like a warhammer as she struggled to regulate her own body temperature.

She cursed herself internally for getting caught pickpocketing in Windhelm. If she’d been more careful, she could at least be in a room at the inn, working through her withdrawals. But her fingers had been cold and she’d been shaking, and the noble she’d been trying to rob had turned around and grabbed her wrist, calling for the guards. At the time, she’d felt lucky just to get out of the city, but now she thought a night in the cells might be a welcome alternative to this.

The sound of crunching snow shook her from her thoughts. Steady and firm; unmistakably another person. She tensed, reaching for her scimitar, the handle reassuring in her grip. 

“The fuck’s there?” Rana forced herself upright, gritting her teeth at the absence of any warmth she’d built up. “If you’re looking to rob me, keep moving, because I’ve got fuck all.”

Strictly speaking, that wasn’t really true. She’d pocketed about thirty gold all in from the bandits, as well as a couple of bottles of ale.

A figure appeared at the door frame, looking right at Rana. “So you’re saying it wasn’t you who killed those brigands and relieved them of their worldly possessions?”

“Might’ve. What’s it to you?”

They chuckled, warm and wry, and Rana realised the figure was a woman, Redguard like her. She wasn’t sure whether that made her relieved or nervous.

“Depends.” The woman took down her hood, shaking the snow from her shoulders and running her fingers through short cropped hair. She pulled her sword from its sheath, examining the blade. “Did you get anything good?”

Rana considered lying, and then decided she was too tired to actually fight. “Just some gold,” she shrugged. “And some ale. Which you’re welcome to.”

“Oh, how _gracious_ ,” the woman said, smirking. “Tell you what. I’ll strike you a deal.” She lowered the sword, relaxed at her side. “Let’s split it fifty-fifty.”

“Must’ve missed the part where you killed this entire band of bloodthirsty fuckers,” Rana said, eyes narrowed.

The woman raised a brow. “Must’ve missed the part where I could kill you and take the lot,” she shot back. “You’re clearly in no condition to fight, and I can promise you I’m more of a challenge than the dead bodies outside were.”

Rana bristled. “Can fight fine.”

What Rana expected was the woman to draw her sword again, a stance that said she was ready for danger. What she got instead was a look that could only be pity, still guarded but definitely not viewing Rana as a direct threat. “Look, I recognise someone in the throes of skooma withdrawal. You can either hand over the gold or I’ll steal it from you while you’re sleeping, your choice.”

The words stung more than Rana had expected them to. She was used to disdain, sneering and vicious, people telling her she was worthless because of her habit. She’d never had a stranger show concern, be anywhere close to giving a shit, and it made her teeth itch and her blood burn.

She barked a laugh. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been through this. And if you think you can take my gold from me, well—I invite you to try.” She snarled. “See if you still have both hands after doing so.”

Something unfathomable crossed the woman’s face, and she sheathed her sword, shrugging. “Fair enough. You win. But I’m staying here for the night.” She shucked off her backpack, throwing it to the ground. “And I’ll take that ale.”

Rana eyed the woman with suspicion as she handed her a bottle. “Why stay here?”

“Presumably for the same reason you are,” the woman shrugged. “Can’t stay inside the city walls.”

“Why not?”

The woman took a long pull at her ale. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who wouldn’t give up their gold.”

Rana sighed. “You want it so badly? Fine. Take the whole damn thirty septims.” She tossed the coin purse at the woman’s feet, then wrapped the furs tighter around herself.

The woman’s brow raised. “That can’t be all they had.” She weighed the purse in her hands, looking at Rana cautiously. “You wouldn’t be threatening to cut off my hands for thirty septims.”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Rana said, embarrassment growing in the hole the skooma was leaving behind. 

“You’re telling me if I shook you down, I wouldn’t find any hidden purses?” The woman asked with a tone that told Rana she knew she wouldn’t.

“Feel free to try.” Rana’s head was splitting now, like one of the bandit’s axes had cleaved through it. “Then feel free to fuck off and find somewhere else to rest.”

The last threat came out less powerful than Rana had hoped, no real heat behind it, and it was painfully obvious. The woman nudged the coin purse back towards her, taking another swig from her ale and wiping the remnants from her mouth. “Not going to shake you down. And you can keep the gold.” _Because clearly you need it more than I do_ was the implied ending to that sentence, and it rang out in the silence. 

After a moment, she spoke again. “Got any more ale?”

Rana gestured towards the foot of the bed, where she’d stashed it. “Drink as much as you want.”

The woman grabbed a bottle and uncorked it. “This one’s not for me.” Heard rustling noises, then the glugging sound of liquid being moved around. “Sit up. Drink.”

She eyed the bottle suspiciously. “What did you put in there?”

“Moon sugar, mostly. Bit of nightshade.” The woman handed her the bottle. “It’ll help you wean off the skooma.”

Rana wasn’t going to argue. At this point, she’d try anything. She drank the spiked ale greedily, retching a little at the overwhelming bitter-sweet-floral flavour it now had. It did go a way to clearing the dryness in her mouth and the ache in her head, though.

When Rana could bear to draw her lips from the bottle, she spoke. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because,” she said, finishing her own ale, “I’m familiar with the kind of Oblivion you’re currently in.” She tossed the bottle into the adjoining room. “And I know that it makes you a terrible person to sleep next to.”

“Oh, so we’re sleeping together now?” Rana felt the hint of a grin pull at her lips. “Don’t even know your name.”

“Rath.” She pulled a canteen from her pocket, taking a swig. “And trust me, when that dose of moon sugar wears off you’ll be thankful you’re sharing your bed.”

Usually Rana would make an incredibly overt comment about how there were other ways they could keep warm, but given sitting upright was a challenge, the offer of a fuck was probably off the cards. “So, Rath,” Rana said, stretching out, “where’re you from?”

“You first.”

Rana ran her fingers through the furs. “Sentinel.” 

“That makes two of us,” Rath said, before taking another swig from the canteen. “So. Why aren’t you inside the city walls?”

“Got caught with my hand somewhere it shouldn’t have been,” Rana said. “Not for the first time. What about you?” 

Rath eyed Rana carefully, as if considering. “Trespassing.”

Frustratingly vague, but Rana didn’t have the energy to press it. She just settled back, nestling into the pile of hay that barely constituted a bed, feeling the edge of the pain ease out to something more bearable. Started to drift off, but then she heard the scritch-scritch-scritch of quill against parchment, relentless and dragging.

Rana opened her eyes to Rath sat at the foot of the bed, scribbling away in a journal. “The fuck are you doing?” 

“Writing.” Rath said simply, not looking up from the book. Just kept scrawling away, scritch-scritch-scritch, and Rana felt like skeevers were trying to claw their way into her head.

“Any chance you could stop?”

Rath shrugged. “Probably.” She looked down at it, watching the ink dry for what seemed like hours, then put the book and ink and quill back in her pack. Rubbed at her hands, huffing a breath that plumed in a great cloud. Not for the first time, Rana wished she was somewhere dark and warm and full of illegal substances, where the clouds were skooma smoke rather than cold.

It was starting to hit her too, the dregs of the moon sugar and ale wearing off, and she shivered under the mountain of furs.

“Move over. I’m climbing in.”

Rana didn’t contest it. Just backed against the wall, making herself as compact as she could while Rath climbed in beside her. When she did, the scent of the woman hit her—sword oil and soap and spices, things she hadn’t smelled in years that still inexplicably reminded her of home. Memories came back in a deluge—meals with family, visits to Temple, the sand beneath her feet—and when she came back to Skyrim she felt like she was drowning again, the cold biting bitter at her cheeks as she sobbed. 

She could feel Rath tense beside her. She didn’t care. Trying to stop this would be hopeless; decades of emotion finally spilling out of her, for lack of something to punch or imbibe or fuck. Those were outlets she understood, but they acted more as crudely patched holes in the hull of a ship, and now the vessel was splitting open and flooding and sinking rapidly downward.

“Deep breaths,” Rath said, alarmingly calm. “Hold steady.”

It took a while for Rana to settle, breaths evening as her heart still pounded in her chest. “You ever captain a boat?”

“Once,” Rath replied, amused. “Don’t remember a whole lot of it.”

“You remind me of an old captain of mine,” Rana said, softly. She wasn’t sure why she’d said it—the admission was uncharacteristically tender and vulnerable—but whatever thoughts Rath had on the matter, she kept to herself. For a while it was near-silence, the sound of nature and their breaths the only noise permeating it, and for once it made Rana feel calm rather than on-edge.

“You know what I miss?” Rana sniffed. “The sound of the desert at night. Cicadas chirping, bird calls, the rustle of sand.”  

Rath hummed in agreement. “Don’t really know what you miss until it’s not there anymore.”

Oh, and that was so true it hurt, ached deep into the pit of Rana’s soul. She breathed deep, focused on keeping her breaths steady shallow waves rather than riptides, and eventually drifted off to sleep.


	7. Merakhed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trope: Forehead Touching  
> Pairing: Nazir/Azarath  
> Rating: E (smutty smut)
> 
> Azarath is [FourCat's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCatProductions) amazing Dunmer OC, who I love a lot and who features in a fic along with the rest of the Sanctum residents [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18915025/chapters/44902792)
> 
> Aaaand this marks the final chapter in the OC Romance Challenge! Massive thanks to Artemis for running it, even if I am (looks at date) three months late in completing it. Hoo boy, lmao.

There were many things Nazir liked about Azarath.

The arrogant, sardonic curl of his lip. How he managed to convey sarcasm through his hand movements and facial expression. His sharp wit and sharper knives, the spoils of which were still carved into Nazir’s skin, the lines now tracing silver and subtle across his pectoral. 

His favourite things, however, were much more sensate.

The way Azarath’s cheeks flushed and his eyes shone when he was being fucked unrelentingly into the mattress. His hair in his fist, his teeth in his neck, bruises blooming pretty against the grey of his skin. The pulse of him around Nazir’s cock, tangible and vital; heat burning like a brand against Nazir. The scent and taste of his sweat. How he cried out as Nazir took him apart, utterly unabashed, spilling over Nazir’s hand.

The way he dug his blunt nails into Nazir’s back and pulled him close, foreheads pressed together, blood-red eyes that demanded he come undone for him.

Nazir took Azarath’s bottom lip between his own, pressed into him, and let himself go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title means "to feel" in Dunmeris.


End file.
